


To Have Waged Both Life and Land

by Hiralethe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Other, seriously don't take this seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2019-10-14 21:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17515865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiralethe/pseuds/Hiralethe
Summary: In which the cloak that Sansa dons is red and black and those who scheme to take her home hold up their end of the bargain.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome aboard the most random of crossover ships - Ivar the Boneless and Sansa Stark! Honestly, don't ask me where this came from; I don't know, and I can't stop.

Sansa awakes to a flurry of activity in her rooms. Shae is by the bedside, lips pursed and arms crossed, expression like thunder. Alarmed, Sansa tosses back the sheets and slips into the dressing gown when Shae holds it open.

“What is happening?” She asks, so quiet Shae struggles to hear it.

Busying herself with fastening the robe, Shae mulls over what to tell her charge. Though she did not relish her duty at first, she has come to love the broken little girl she serves, and has no wish to cause her harm.

“The Queen Regent sent them,” Shae tells her lady, lips nearly pressed to her ear for privacy. Inwardly, she curses when the girl begins to tremble violently at her words. “I know not what for, but they brought that,” she nods sharply to the beautiful, silver and white gown in the corner, “with them not half an hour ago.”

Grasping hands with her lady’s maid, one of the only people she can trust, Sansa finds it difficult to swallow. “The betrothal –”

Shae quiets her with a tight squeeze of her fingers. Without another word, she leads the girl to the steaming tub that has been filled and undresses her. The other maids move to help, but back away in fear when Shae snaps at them to leave it. With the care of a mother, Shae helps the trembling, helpless girl into the water and sets about bathing her.

Though her maid’s hands are gentle, and she allows Sansa to wash herself when the girl motions for the soap, Shae can see the bath has little effect on calming the girl. Taking a pitcher with clean water, she bids Sansa to tip her head back and rinses the soap from her fire-kissed hair just as the door to the bedroom opens

Queen Cersei, swathed in crimson silk with golden stitching along the hem and sleeves, strides into the room. Her golden curls are gathered along her crown, glimmering with rubies and diamonds. Her emerald eyes are sharp and her mouth is twisted with displeasure, something she makes little attempt to hide.

“Little dove,” she greets, crossing the room to the bathing chamber. Ignoring the bows of the maids, she settles on the padded chair at Sansa’s vanity, hands crossed primly. “I trust you have recovered from the shame of the betrothal ceremony?”

Sansa can only nod dumbly.

“Lord Ragnar Lothbrok has been summoned to Court,” Cersei announces without preamble, lips twisted. It is all Sansa can do to hold her tongue, to not scream and rage. The Lothbroks are a Northern family from the island Kattegat – they are bannermen of the Starks. They should be fighting with Robb, not at King’s Landing swearing fealty to the Lannisters. “He comes with three of his sons, and his wife Lagertha.”

“Forgive me your grace,” Sansa dares to ask, “but what has this to do with me?”

Cersei’s eyes twinkle with malice when they gaze upon Sansa. “You miss your home, do you not?” She does not wait for the practiced denial that springs to Sansa’s lips. “Mayhaps you will find yourself in the North, sooner than you might think.”

Heart skipping a beat, Sansa stares at the queen with frightened, too wide eyes. “What?” She says numbly, rising from the cool water when Shae tugs for her to do so. Another maid comes forward with a fire-warmed towel and wraps it around her body. “But I thought…”

“Do not worry, Joff and the Tyrell girl are to be married.” Cersei reminds her flatly, irritated by the girl’s slow wits already. “You are a ward of the king, my dear, the daughter of a convicted traitor. As such, your future is at the discretion of men such as my father.”

Shivering violently despite the fact that Shae led her to the fireplace to dry her hair, Sansa stares up at the queen with enormous, frightened eyes. “And what, may I ask, has the Lord Hand chosen for me?”

Cersei allows a smirk at the girl’s careful, correct wording. “He has not said yet, but I do not believe Lord Ragnar will leave here alone.” Her eyes have begun to glint with a darkness that Sansa knows well enough by now to stay silent.

Bored, the queen regent falls silent as the maids prepare Sansa for a day in court. The heat of the fire dries her thick, red hair, and Shae draws a fine-toothed comb through the weight of it as Sansa settles at her vanity. A maid has just begun to draw her hair into the complicated twists the queen favors when the woman herself stops her.

“I think it better if Lady Sansa wears her hair down today,” Cersei pours herself a goblet of wine as she speaks. “Keep it loose, like a mane of fire. Show the Lothbroks what they’re buying, and all that.”

Sansa flushes the color of her hair but meekly bows her head. So instructed, the maids leave her hair loose, securing only a few strands so that it does not hang in her face. They slip her into the dress, rope freshwater pearls in her hair that shine in the torchlight.

Sansa stares in the mirror, frightened eyes taking the half-grown woman when she queen comes behind her. She places her hand at Sansa’s waist, strokes her shining, auburn tresses. 

“Such a beauty,” Cersei coos, a poor, flat imitation of Sansa’s own mother. “You will do well for one of the Lothbrok sons. Such a pity Joff could not bear to marry a traitor’s get. I will see you soon, little dove.”

With that, the queen flounces from the room, the small army of maids at her heels. Shaking from head to toe, Sansa does not protest when Shae all but shoves her to sit on the bed, nor when she forces a goblet of wine into her trembling hands. Muttering softly, Shae soothes a hand over Sansa’s hair, her touch infinitely more welcome than Cersei’s.

“Hush now, little one. It will be alright, you’ll see.” Forcing a smile, Shae goes for a jar of scented oils, sent just yesterday morn by Lady Margaery herself. Dabbing the scent on Sansa’s neck and wrists, she urges the girl to down the wine. “I will be with you,” the maid promises grimly as she takes the empty goblet away and clasps hands with the frightened girl. “I promise.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dressed in lambswool and leather, Lord Ragnar Lothbrok lounges on the balcony, gazing into the gardens before him. The South is lush and resplendent, though King’s Landing is less so. He has not been here in over two decades, not since before Robert’s Rebellion, when the kingdom was still ruled by dragon-lords.

A whisper of silk catches his attention, and he turns to see Lagertha join him. Her sky-blue eyes are cool, and there is nothing but duty when she brushes her lips across his cheek. “Husband,” she greets, every inch the proper lady, as if she has never picked up a sword or slaughtered an enemy. “Are your sons ready?”

“I do not know, wife,” he returns, smiling in the face of her polite, detached fury. After all these years, he has grown used to it. Had they followed the old ways, he is sure she would have divorced him long ago. Pride is a funny thing, and his wife has enough for at least half a dozen men or more.

“The Queen Regent expects us in less than a half hours’ time,” she reminds him curtly, turning when his sons join them. Her eyes are cool when she turns to his sons, but affectionate all the same. “Ubbe, Hvitserk. Ivar.”

“Mother.” All three boys greet dutifully, though all know that they carry little true affection for the woman who has raised them.

“When will we meet the Stark girl? This… Sansa?” Hvitserk asks, looking gleeful at the thought of a new, pretty girl to lust over. “They say her hair is red as fire, I wonder if-”

Lagertha does not bother to let him finish before she lightly smacks him upside the head for it. “You will be courtesy itself to that girl,” she hisses, rounding on Ragnar to glower at him. “Will they not, husband?”

Gripping his tunic, Ragnar grins at her fire before sobering. “I agree with your mother, boys. The girl has had a hard life, since Ned Stark was put to death.”

Lagertha’s eyes were soft with sympathy. “They say the king strips her naked and beat her before court,” she recounts the gossip that, for every moment spent in King Joffrey’s court, seems to ring truer and truer. “And that only the Imp was able to stop him.”

Though both Ubbe and Hvitserk look only interested when the Imp is mentioned, Ivar’s deep blue eyes gleam.

Seeing this, Ragnar draws his youngest aside. “What is it, Ivar?”

“I saw her, father,” Ivar whispers, as if confessing a dark secret. “The Stark girl, I saw her in the gardens last night when we arrived. She was praying at the Heart Tree.”

That the daughter of Ned Stark still worships the Old Gods, given how all Northerners had known of his Southron wife, is an interesting tidbit. Pushing it aside for later, Ragnar instead focuses on the covetous expression his youngest son wears. “And?”

“I want her.” Ivar whispers, his eyes fill with a mad, glittering desire that Ragnar recognizes all too well. “I want her, father.”

“The girl will be allowed to choose, Ivar, as is our way. Remember that.” Ragnar chides him, though acknowledges it a fruitless matter. Once Ivar is set on something, nothing can stand in his way. Not even family. “However, given that Hvitserk is your only competition, well…” He trails off, delighted to see Ivar’s face break out into a wide, happy smile.

Drawing his son close, he hugs the boy and claps his back roughly. Lagertha clears her throat pointedly, eyebrow raised in faint amusement at their antics. Sighing heavily, he presses a kiss to Ivar’s hair before going to his wife.

“Shall we?”

Arm in arm, Ragnar and Lagertha travel through the halls of the Red Keep, their sons just behind. Their steps are slow and measured, a tactful, unspoken agreement to make it easier for Ivar, who has yet to fully master the use of his legs. He has already been reminded by both his father and step-mother to remain silent, even if there are taunts about his legs; as Bannermen to the Starks, their actions are under scrutiny enough as it is without insulting their ‘King’.

The throne room is full to bursting when they enter at the herald’s cry. Though King Joffrey likes to pretend, the full reign of the court is held under the sway of Tywin Lannister and, to an extent, his daughter and youngest son.

“Lord Lothbrok, so good of you to come to court.” Tywin greets, inclining his bald head. “I trust your journey was a peaceful one?”

Ragnar holds back a cutting remark, helped by Lagertha’s nails digging into his arm beneath his sleeve. “When the King asks for your presence, you do not refuse, my lord. Your grace,” at once, they all sweep into a bow to the boy-king. “We were all overjoyed to receive your invitation to court.”

“You do me a great honor,” the boy king is Ivar’s age, but seems much younger. “To have the once great Ragnar Lothbrok is a gift beyond measure.” Wormy lips squirm into a smirk. “The tales do not do you justice, my lord.”

The court titters, though all fall silent when the queen regent stands. “My lord, may I present to you Lady Sansa Stark?” At that, a tall, willowy girl with deep auburn curls cautiously steps from the crowd, flanked by a black-haired handmaiden.

Wide, frightened blue eyes, despite the girl’s attempts to hide it, meet Ragnar’s and he is all at once lost. A fierce surge of protectiveness, one he has not felt since his dear Gyda’s death, sweeps over him. This little girl, who looks so Tully by reveals herself as a Stark with the steel in her spin, will be returning to Kattegat with them, no matter what the cost.


	3. Chapter 3

It is well past the hour of the wolf when Sansa is able to head to the Godswood. Cloaked in black, so pale she resembles a corpse, she sweeps through the hallways, so used to the path that she knows the guard rotations by heart. As she walks, her empty stomach threatens to heave from nerves, and she presses a gloved fist to her mouth. 

Though her introduction to Lord Lothbrok, his wife and their children was not as bad as she feared, she is terrified. Though she knows little of the family, she knows that they are Bannermen of the Starks. But they did not answer Robb when he called the banners, and have come to swear their loyalty to the Lannisters. Sick with fear, with worry, Sansa increases her pace, needing the solace and comfort of the Heart Tree.

Though she knows they worship the Old Gods, it is still a terrible shock to see one of Lord Ragnar’s sons as he kneels before the tree. A shock of dark, thick hair catches the moonlight and tells her it is the youngest. She has heard cruel whispers, not unlike those that speak of Lord Tyrion, calling him the ‘boneless’, though she cannot understand why.

Hanging back, she watches, curious despite herself. Lord Ragnar frightens her, as does his sharp, icy wife, and the elder of his sons is so large she half-feared he could snap her in two. The middle son makes her uneasy, though he did little to hide his gaze on her body, but it is the youngest that puts her so on edge.

Keen, intent blue eyes, darker than her own, gazed at her throughout the court proceedings. Even at the dinner, where she sat far enough away, so as not to cause a scandal, she felt his eyes upon her. They did not undress her as his brother’s did, nor were they the warm, almost paternal of his father, but with a fierce, deep longing that unsettles her.

Breath caught, Sansa watches as the boy withdraws a gleaming knife and slashes through his palm. The blood dribbles from the shallow wound, collecting on the roots of the heart tree. For all his devotion to the Old Gods, her father had never done such an old ritual, watering the tree roots with his own blood.

Ivar tips his head back and breathes in deep, almost in a trance. Moonlight filters through the branches and throws his features into sharp relief. He is handsome, Sansa realizes, something in her lower belly clenching at the thought. As if drawn by her thoughts, his eyes snap open and they turn to meet hers.

Caught, Sansa makes to flee, but something stops her. Heart pounding, she can only stand and wait as he rises to his feet and sheathes the blade. His step is quiet and measured, and each one sends her heart further into her throat. When he comes to stand before her, too close for propriety, she is half-sure that he can hear how loud her heart beats.

“Lady Sansa,” he greets, accent faint and familiar. “What are you doing out so late?”

“I-I could ask you the same, my lord.”

He chuckles, as if she amuses him. “I think, perhaps, we might dispense with the courtesies? After all,” he draws closer still, close enough that she can feel his breath upon her face. “We will be joined beneath a Heart Tree soon, yes?”

Stunned by his words, cheeks heated and mouth dry, Sansa can only stare. Even as he grasps her chin with gentle, calloused fingers and draws her close. It is only when his lips press chastely to hers, such a contradiction to his heated words, that her mind returns to her.

Horrified, she pulls herself away, holding onto a nearby tree to keep herself upright. Her lips tingle, and she raised a hand to brush her fingers to them. Joffrey was the last person she kissed and, after her father’s death, those kisses were looked to with dread rather than welcome. But even Joff’s kisses did not make her feel as if liquid heat has been poured into her belly, warming her in a manner that both frightens and excites her.

“I apologize,” Ivar whispers, at once all too close again. He raises a hand and brushes a loose curl from her face. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t.” Sansa says, breathless at rush of heat his touch invites. “I-I am merely startled, my lord. Please, forgive me." She waits, tense and prepared, for the slaps. For the cruel taunts that hurt, even as her skin has turned from porcelain, to ivory, to steel. But there is nothing, and when she meets his gaze, finds only tenderness in those deep blue eyes.

“I will not hurt you, I promise.” He raises his other hand and stills, as if just realizing that it still bleeds.

Fishing out a handkerchief from the pocket of her cloak, Sansa offers it. Ivar takes it with a dip of his head, lips pressed together, as if to hold back a smile. “Thank you, my lady.” He wraps the scrap of cloth about his hand and knots it, before he returns his attention to her. “I will treasure it, Sansa.”

Sansa shivers as his tongue caresses her name. Blushing hotly, she looks anywhere but him. “If you will excuse me, my lord.” She curtsies and moves to go around him, breath hitching when he catches her by the hand.

“My lady,” he draws her hand to his mouth, kissing the tips of her fingers. She gasps, scarlet flush traveling down her neckline when he nips her heart finger. “I will see you soon.”

And just like that, he is gone. Breathless, Sansa wanders to the heart tree and collapses among the roots. She prays by rote, words long memorized and familiar, but finds her mind wondering, unable to shake the look in Lord Ivar’s eyes when he held her fingers to his mouth.

She is very late in returning to her rooms.


	4. Chapter 4

“The girl is terrified of her own shadow, Ragnar,” Lagertha rages as they stride through the gardens. Her voice is low, despite the distress gleaming in her eyes. “She flinches whenever someone so much as looks in her direction, never mind when I try to speak to her. What did that witch and her bastard do to her?”

“Shh,” Ragnar soothes, reaches out to clasp his hands along her biceps. She stops short and glares up at him but keeps her mouth shut. “You must know how dangerous such words are, wife. If they should hear…”

“I do not care what they hear,” she hisses back, but he can see she understands in the way her eyelashes flutter to shield her eyes. “But you are right. We will help her more by getting her away from all this. It is the least we can do, given how badly we’ve failed the Young Wolf.”

Ragnar’s eyes glint with sorrow. “You know I wanted to go to war, Lagertha. I did but with my association with Aslaug, we must prove our loyalty before he will fully trust us.”

Her eyes gleam. “It will always come down to that witch, won’t it? She stole you from me, she stole our boys from my womb with her magic. Were she not already dead, I would gut her myself.” Tears gleam in those cold eyes. “We have had to disown our son, Ragnar - _our son_. All for this godsdamned plan that may not even come to fruition – Lord Tywin may not allow us to take Sansa North, even if she does marry one of the boys!”

Sometimes, Ragnar wishes his wife was like other women. Wishes that she would scream and cry and beat him with her fists when she is upset. But she does not. Just as she wields a sword with cool, detached anger, she hides behind cutting words and icy eyes when they quarrel. He knows his infidelities with Aslaug hurt her, that he can never recover her trust for those long, cursed years, but he cannot make her accept his apologies any more than he can make her love him again.

“We will see Bjorn again,” he vows, large hands cupping the sharp line of her cheeks. She does not struggle in his hold, but tenses at his touch. “I promise. When we take the Stark girl from this place, we will join King Robb and his armies.”

“But why?” She demands quietly, gripping his wrists, though neither is sure if she wants to rip them away or hold them fast to her skin. “Why must we go through this charade? Why must we marry the girl to one of the boys? Will a betrothal not suffice?”

“Because they will never let her go so long as she has use.” Ragnar does not fight when she pulls from his touch with a scoff. “If she remains a maid, unwed and untouched, then she is still of use to them. They will lay claim to Winterfell, and marry her off to a Lannister kinsman so that sons of Lannister blood might inherit Winterfell if Robb were to die.”

“She will never consent to be bedded by one of the boys. You know that.”

Ragnar’s answering smirk has her on edge. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Just last night,” he leans closer, voice an exaggerated whisper, “she let Ivar kiss her. In the Godswood.”

Lagertha inhales sharply. “Does she not understand what that means? That they are as good as betrothed in the eyes of the Old Gods?”

“From what I understand, until she came South, she worshipped the Seven.” Eyes gleaming with satisfaction, he takes his wife’s arm, gratified when she lets him lead her further along the garden. “At least Ivar will be happy. He has been restless since his mother’s death.”

Despite herself, Lagertha laughs dryly. “That’s one way of putting it.”

The sound is music to Ragnar’s ears. Emboldened, he raises his wife’s hand and presses a chaste kiss to the back of it. She does not protest, and he can see the corner of her lips twitch even as she turns her head away.

It is a start.

* * *

 

Sansa sits at the vanity, listening to Shae as the handmaid styles her thick auburn curls. Though Shae is a woman of few words, Sansa is grateful for her seemingly endless chatter this evening. One of the Lothbrok servants arrived this morning at first light, carrying an invitation to sup with Lord Ragnar and his wife. There is no mention of their sons and for that, Sansa is grateful.

Part of her wants to beg off, to send Shae with her excuses that she is ill, and it will not be a lie. Her stomach twists with nerves that worsens each and every time the Lothbroks are kind to her. Once, Cersei was kind to her, as was Joff. She will not be played the fool again, no matter how much she desires to leave the capital. As Shae helps her clasp the heavy brocade overdress of deep purple, a knock comes from the door.

Smoothing her hands down the front of the gown, Sansa gives a nervous nod of her head. Shae follows her lady’s command and opens the door, revealing Lord Ragnar himself

“My lady Stark,” Ragnar greets with a courtly bow of his head. There is a kind smile on his lips that she instantly distrusts. “I am here to escort you, if you will allow me?”

Giving another, jerky nod, Sansa steps from the room and takes his arm when he offers it. They walk in silence, Sansa’s hand a light pressure on his arm. Struggling to think of what to say, how to put the frightened girl at ease, he decides on what he believes to be a neutral subject.

“That is a lovely gown, my lady,” he comments lightly, eyes softening when she flinches as if struck, “my wife has a similar one. I am certain you and she will have much to discuss on the subject.”

Sansa nods politely, though he can see the wariness creep into her blue eyes. He decides it to be better if Lagertha draws the girl from her shell and falls silent. The walk is, thankfully, short and soon enough they are before the apartments the Lothbrok family has been given for their stay.

“Husband,” Lagertha greets them at the door, hair swept from her face in a complicated, braided style that is studded with beads. “Lady Sansa, welcome.” Offering a hand to the girl, Lagertha smiles despite the hesitance in the girl’s every breath. “Thank you for accepting our invitation.”

Gently, she leads the girl into the rooms, watching her reactions closely. Fear gleams in those Tully blue eyes, though Sansa is quick to hide it behind a polite, distant mask that Lagertha knows intimately. Though the Queen Regent claims the child on Lagertha’s arm to be a woman, she can see nothing is further from the truth.

Lady Sansa is a child, a broken child with grief weighing her down so heavily it is a wonder she can stand at all. Her eyes are flat and shielded when they enter the solar of their quarters. To her alarm, Lagertha sees true, unchecked panic fill the girl’s gaze and turns to see what has elicited such a response.

“Lady Sansa,” Ivar purrs, dark blue eyes focused intently on the child that now all but clutches to Lagertha’s arm. “It is wonderful to see you again.”

Sansa allows a sharp intake of breath. “You as well, my lord.” She cannot quite control the tremble to her words, nor the warm, flare of heat deep in her belly. “Your dress is quite lovely, Lady Lothbrok,” she chooses a safe topic, hoping none will notice the exchange between the youngest son and herself.

Lagertha takes pity on her; she knows just how intense Ivar can be. “Thank you, lady Sansa. Though I am sure it compares little to the gowns of the capital. The queen regent’s gown at court yesterday was a fearsome sight to behold.”

Lagertha’s eyes twinkle with a kind mischief that Sansa cannot help but share. The queen’s fondness for armored gowns is well known, as is her assertion that had it been allowed, she might wield a sword better than any man. Abruptly remembering that the woman before her has sided with Lannisters, the mirth drains from Sansa as she falls back onto her polished courtesies.

Smiling warmly, as if she has not noticed the sudden change, Lagertha leads Sansa from the room. Under her own suggestion, the boys will not dine with them this eve. Rather they stay in the solar, while Ragnar and Lagertha lead Sansa to the private dining room. The small table is set, and a pair of servants strum the lute and play the harp in the corner. Dinner is a quiet affair, as lady Sansa keeps her eyes on her plate and speaks only when directly addressed. Even when she does so, it is barely enough to be polite.

“My lady,” Ragnar begins as the second course is served, ribs cooked in a garlic crust and soft, buttery rolls that flake apart at the touch. Sansa raises her eyes from her goblet of sweep hippocras and regards him warily. “If I might be so bold, perhaps we might discuss the subject at hand?”

Sansa tries, but cannot contain, the tremble in her fingers. Still, she manages to set her goblet of wine on the table without spilling a drop. “Of course, my lord.” Neatly, she folds her hands on her lap, spine so straight any septa would be proud. She tenses, as if expecting a blow.

“Sansa,” Lagertha whispers, breaching protocol to gently touch the young woman’s hand. She starts, eyes shut, lips pressed together in a thin line. At a nod from their lady, the servants begin to play louder as Lagertha lowers her voice to a whisper. “I want you to listen when I tell you that we are here to keep you safe. That is all we want.”

“How can I believe that? How can I believe that anyone who swears their loyalty to Joffrey will help me? I trusted the queen once, but she has done nothing to stop Joff when he-.” She stops, porcelain skin losing what little color it has left. “I-I didn’t mean… I am a traitor, I have traitor’s blood. Please, please…”

Without a word, Lagertha draws Sansa to her, hiding the girl’s tears.

“We will take you back home, Sansa,” Ragnar promises quietly, so quietly he thinks she does not hear him. But when she raises her head from his wife’s bosom and turns to stare at him with tremulous hope in those too-wide eyes. “I swear it, on the Old Gods and the new, we will see you returned home.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of scheming in this chapter... more to come later, too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ship is now called 'longship' and you cannot tell me otherwise. Thank you 1146TheMarshall1219! 
> 
> Ivar is going to be a little OOC as the story continues... also the whole Margrethe sleeping with every son of Ragnar but Bjorn did not happen in this story, however Ivar did have his own love affair prior to the start of the story, but more on that later.

With Ragnar and lord Tyrion closeted for the afternoon, Lagertha finds herself taking tea with the lady Margaery and her grandmother lady Olenna. The old woman is every bit as shrewd as rumor claims, and when in the company of women, does little to hide it. Young Margaery is an apt pupil, who hides her cleverness behind simpering smiles and wide doe eyes.

“I have heard of your troubles, lady Lothbrok,” The Queen of Thorns begins just as their fool, a rather rotund boy called Butterbumps, belches out a song. “Your husband’s infidelity,” she shakes her head in commiseration, “a tragedy, to be sure. But that is what we women must do, yes? Shut our eyes and endure.”

Lagertha’s eyes are like chips of ice. “You truly are a queen among women, my lady,” she says with a smile sweet enough to kill a man, “for it is said your dearly departed husband saw no other woman save for you.”

“My Luthor, the gods rest his soul, was a simple man. An oaf, to be sure, but I loved him well enough. Your Ragnar is said to be a beast among men, if the rumors are true. And your sons, well… I am quite sure they have to beat the women off with a stick.”

“Alas, two of my boys are already wed. The others, well, Hvitserk is more concerned with war than women and Ivar is quite besotted with his betrothed, as only a young man can be.”

Lady Margaery’s eyes sparkle at the juicy tidbit Lagertha has let slip. “I have noticed lord Ivar is rarely without the company of young Sansa Stark… might the rumors be true? Oh, it would be so lovely if they could wed in the capital!” Those doe eyes shine, as if nothing should please her more than such a thing.

“That is what I wished to discuss.” Lagertha sets her teacup down, hands folded neatly in her lap. “Given the nature of her time here in King’s Landing, and that she seems more predisposed to the Gods of old, it is my hope that lord Tywin and his grace might acquiesce to allow lady Sansa and Ivar to marry in Kattegat.”

Margaery’s eyes drip with sympathy and she coos like a turtledove at Lagerthat’s words. Lady Olenna’s expression is inscrutable, and she gestures for their fool to sing louder. Beneath the shrieking of the fool, that sounds much like a dying cat to Lagertha, the Queen of Thorns speaks.

“Convincing the Lord Hand of such a thing, never mind the king, means your husband has his work cut out for him.” She squirms closer in her seat, eyes glittering. Despite herself, Lagertha breathes a sigh of relief that the old woman catches on quick. “Perhaps if my dear Margaery were to say something… there has been talk, my lady. Gossip, that, should lady Sansa remain in the capital, married or no, the king would wish to have his way with her.”

For once, Margaery is not smiling. There is no hint of pleasure on her pretty features. Only a graveness that is identical to that of her grandmother’s. She does not hate Sansa Stark, Lagertha sees, but she will not suffer a nobly born mistress. Lagertha can intimately sympathize with the girl.

“Perhaps,” Lagertha says lowly and leans forward to grasp young Margaery’s hand. The girl brightens, to fool any who may be watching closely. Only a fool forgets that the walls of the Red Keep have both eyes and ears. “If someone were to bring to the king’s attention that the lady Margaery would prefer to see lady Sansa wedded and bedded and sent from court, that she wishes to start her life with the king without any… distractions.” Lagertha tightens her fingers and holds Margaery’s eyes. “Of course, only if that is what you desire, my lady.”

“Of course,” lady Margaery veils her eyes, expression engaging despite the glint in her gaze. “I thank you for your kind concern, my lady.”

Lagertha smiles.

* * *

 

“And why should my father allow such a thing? After all, King’s Landing is in possession of a Godswood and Heart Tree. They should be more than sufficient for your needs, my lord.”

Ragnar enjoys Tyrion Lannister’s company, far more than he ever dreamed. But right now, all he wishes is to slice through the Imp’s other eye and give him matching scars. As if he senses the violence headed his way, Tyrion grins, scar stretching.

“Do not shoot the messenger, my lord. That is but a hint of what my father will say, mark my words.” Taking his wine, Tyrion quaffs a hearty measure, smiling wider when Ragnar refills the goblet. “Mayhaps, you need someone to help my father along?”

Lagertha has already done so, but Ragnar has no intention of telling Tyrion that. Though he is a sensible sort, clever and witty, Ragnar trusts him as far as he can throw him. “Perhaps,” he avoids, smirking when Tyrion arches a golden brow. “Now, might I see those sketches of yours?”

Still amused, Tyrion slides over a sheaf of papers. There is a modified sketch of the braces Ivar currently wears, along with sketches for a special saddle that will do wonders for Ivar’s temperament when astride a horse. “I took the liberty of making some changes here,” he places a finger on the closest paper, “and here. I am quite sure this will lessen the strain on your son’s knees when he walks.”

“Thank you, lord Tyrion,” Ragnar says, and he means it. Though his sister is as poisonous as they come, Tyrion is cut from a different cloth than his shrew of a sibling. He is, however, frighteningly like his father, though Ragnar knows better than to voice such a thing. “I am sure Ivar will appreciate the gesture.”

“It was my pleasure. I’ve always had a soft spot for cripples, bastards, and broken things.” Mismatched eyes gleaming, he toasts Ragnar. “Now, onto your little problem. I’ve noticed lady Stark and your Ivar have grown close these last few days… is she unaware of your sons’ illegitimacy?”

“They are not recognized by the crown or the sept, but they are recognized by the Old Gods and the North.” Ragnar replies, so used to the snide remarks of the court that Tyrion’s abrupt manner is refreshing. “Though, I have heard that your father seeks to officially proclaim my three sons legitimate, as a thanks for remaining loyal to the crown.”

“So he is,” Tyrion agrees lightly, lowering his wine. “However, you must know that he will not consent to allow lady Sansa to leave the capital, especially if she is not wed first. Unless you plan to work a miracle, my lord, you and your family will be staying here for a long while.”

With a grin, Ragnar toasts the small man before him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa learns an interesting tidbit about Ragnar's love life and chaos ensues!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It just crossed my mind that I've been completely ignoring Littlefinger... hopefully this chapter fixes that!

Arm in arm, Sansa walks through the gardens with lady Lagertha, smiling at the way the older woman silently admires the lush beauty. Ahead walks lord Ragnar, lord Tyrion and Ivar. The small man is deep in conversation with Sansa’s betrothed, discussing the limits of the braces Ivar wears on his legs.

Just as she finds lord Tyrion’s moniker of the ‘Imp’ distasteful, Sansa finds it equally horrible that there are those that call Ivar ‘Boneless’. Lady Lagertha confided in her that, while he is not fully crippled, Ivar was born with weakened bones in his legs. Sansa stares, listening idly to Lagertha, taking in the sight of Ivar’s broad arms and chest. The now obvious braces do nothing to detract from his handsomeness. Despite her fear, she imagines that it will not be an unpleasant bedding… and abruptly flushes at the turn her thoughts have taken.

More and more, she has found her thoughts linger on what is to come. Though it instills her with fear, she finds that she is beginning to crumble beneath the soft touch of his lips, the caress of his fingers on her skin. He is the picture of propriety in public, even when they are in the Lothbrok apartments, with no one around. But when they enter the Godswood at night, as is their unspoken agreement, he is… different.

Realizing she is still staring, Sansa tears her eyes from Ivar and meets Lagertha’s amused gaze. Her future goodmother says nothing, merely tugs her closer, and continues on. Still flushing hotly, she looks up the path to catch Ivar’s eye. His golden skin shines in the bright sunlight as he throws his head back, laughing at a jape of lord Tyrion’s. He winks at her, smiling wider than she has ever seen him do.

“He is quite taken with you,” Lagertha whispers in an undertone, gently steering them from the main path of the garden. “I have not seen him smile so since his mother’s death.”

Sansa stiffens. “H-his mother, my lady? But I thought you-” She stops, lost, and pulls away from Lagertha.

She lets Sansa go, hands clasped before her. “My eldest, Bjorn… his birth was a difficult one. It did enough damage that I believed I could no longer conceive, that I could not bear Ragnar any more sons. We contracted the services of… of a woman well-versed in herb-lore. She was the descendant of a witch of the woods – she bewitched my husband and cursed my womb. She is the one who bore Ragnar four more sons.”

Fists clenched in the dagged sleeves of her gown, Sansa swallows. It feels as though she has been slapped. All this time, she thought Lagertha Ivar’s mother – thought her the mother of all lord Ragnar’s sons. To find out that she is mistaken… “But your- lord Ragnar’s sons carry his name. As if they were trueborn.” She is lost, so lost, and betrayal creeps its icy fingers up her spine. “I do not understand.”

“Because I could not bear my husband any more children, Ragnar was well within his rights to set me aside. He did not, but instead took Aslaug as his mistress, and their sons were named legitimate.” Lagertha’s eyes are wet with tears as she speaks, and she despises herself for it. These wounds are years old, yet they sting and hurt as if they are ripped open anew. “I did not realize you were unaware of the situation, Sansa. I apologize.”

“I-I must go, my lady. Please, give lords Ragnar and Tyrion my excuses,” she makes no mention of Ivar, and she all but runs towards the main garden path. Lost in her tumultuous thoughts, she does not notice where she is going and runs headlong into lord Ragnar.

“Lady Sansa!” He catches her by the shoulders to steady her, blue eyes catch her own with concern. “Are you all right, child?”

“F-forgive me, my lord, I must-” Heart in her throat, she stops when she catches sight of Ivar and Lord Tyrion, who stand just beyond Ragnar’s shoulder. “My lords,” she ducks a curtsey and tries to sweep away, but is halted by Ivar’s gentle touch. “Please, my lord I feel ill and-”

“Sansa,” he whispers, cupping her face with his fingers, avidly searching for her gaze. “Sansa what is it?”

She should not be surprised, she is not surprised, she should never be surprised to find that she is lied to. _We’re all liars, here_ , lord Baelish had told her not so long ago, and he is right. Every single person in the capital is a liar. Including the Lothbroks.

Without a word, she rips herself from Ivar’s touch and leaves the gardens, choking back tears. Will she ever be more than a pawn? Something to be used and lied to before discarded when people are bored with her? Part of her knows this is an overreaction, but she can barely hear it over the taunting voice that names her a stupid little girl.

* * *

 

“Ivar,” he glances up as Lagertha sweeps onto the private balcony, but does not rise. She says nothing, merely follows his gaze when it returns to the gardens beneath them. Sansa, her handmaid in tow, strides through the neatly trimmed hedges, her pale face an open mask of misery. “Forgive me, Ivar,” Lagertha seats herself with a whisper of silk, “I thought she knew.”

“I do not blame you, mother,” he admits moodily, chin on his crossed forearms. His eyes track Sansa’s every movement, and Lagertha feels something pulse painfully beneath her breast at the unchecked longing in those dark eyes. “She was bound to find out sooner or later. I blame myself for not addressing it once I realized she was unaware of our… unusual situation.”

“Unusual in the capital, yes,” Lagertha adjusts her skirts, fingers careful on the rich fabric. She does not have many silk gowns (the fabric is too light for the constant chill of the North) and has no desire to ruin what she has. “But not so in the North. At least, not so with the smaller houses, such as ours. You are a Lothbrok,” she reaches out to touch his hand, not offended when he flinches at the touch, “as surely as if I gave birth to you myself.”

“I used to think you hated us,” he mutters quietly, eyes still trained on Sansa. “That because of our mother, you could not bring yourself to care for us. Even after her death.”

“You are Ragnar’s sons. I will love you because you have a part of him, and part of me will always love him.” He does not reply to that, though it does not surprise her. No one, not even the boys, openly remarks on the frigidity of her marriage, but then it is not their place, is it? The last person that did was Floki’s wife, Helga, and even then, all she did was offer Lagertha a sympathetic ear.

In the silence, Lagertha finds her eyes drawn to Sansa, eyes soft with sympathy when she catches sight of the despair etched on the girl’s features. In the last fortnight, she has seen the little wolf come out of her shell, but this most recent ‘betrayal’ has caused her to retreat behind her cold, bruised courtesies once more. Lagertha cannot find it within herself to blame the poor girl; though it was not their intent, she knows Sansa believes they willfully kept such information from her in an attempt to deceive her, just as many others already have.

“Do you ever think of that night, Lagertha?” Ivar asks, quite suddenly.

Lagertha stares at him, mulling the question over in her mind. She knows instantly what he refers to and struggles to hide the revulsion for what befell the House of Lothbrok that terrible night. “Your brother was once a good man, Ivar,” she says finally, carefully. Even now, with Sigurd four years dead, she knows Ivar hates him as intensely as he did when his brother drew breath. “Your mother… she led him astray, as I’m sure you know.”

“Aye,” he agrees darkly, as thoughts of Freydis – a bloody, broken doll with glassy, staring eyes that will never smile for him again - consume him. She was good and kind and gentle, and deserved a better fate than to be caught in the petty squabbles of two little lordlings and their mad witch of a mother. “I remember.”

Lost in their thoughts, neither notice when Sansa Stark is joined by Lord Petyr Baelish.

* * *

 

“Lord Baelish,” Sansa dips a curtsey to the Master of Coin.

“Lady Sansa,” he returns, lingering over her hand when he kisses it.

Hiding her unease, though she can sense Shae’s disapproval of the older man, Sansa gestures for him to join her. They walk in silence for several minutes, during which Sansa is lost in her thoughts.

“I’ve been remiss, lady Sansa,” Littlefinger begins, startling her enough that she missteps.

“My lord?”

His smile is clearly meant to be inviting, but all Sansa can see is the calculating gleam in his eyes. “I do believe congratulations are in order? You are to wed Lord Lothbrok’s bastard son, are you not?”

She cannot help the flinch at his words, the reminder that after everything that’s been done to her, she is still a gullible, stupid fool. Still, she recovers with a polite, distant smile – though he may have loved her mother, lord Baelish himself told her to never trust anyone, even him.

She will not forget that lesson ever again.

“If the king is gracious enough to approve it, yes.” Hoping to put the conversation behind them, Sansa continues along the path. “I have not seen you at court much, my lord,” she says once he catches up, “I heard you were named lord of Harrenhall, for bringing the Tyrells into the fold?”

He gives a little smile at the bitterness she cannot hide. “I believe it was meant as a jape, given the dark history of the castle. Still, it is a better seat than that of the smallest of the fingers. Tell me, how do you find lord Ragnar and his family?”

“Kind,” she says, choosing the most neutral term that she can. Glancing up from the flowers, she finds her attention arrested by the sight of Ivar seated on one of the balconies. His arms crossed, he stares down at her, though she cannot make out his expression. “Lord Ragnar has been very kind,” she repeats, looking down at the garden path. “As is his wife, lady Lagertha. And his sons. They are all kind.”

Abruptly, lord Baelish catches her arm, bringing her to a stop. Wide eyed at the unexpected touch, she lets him turn her to face him. He shifts closer, though pauses at the sound of the clearing of Shae’s throat. Her lady’s maid wears a mutinous expression that threatens bodily harm to Littlefinger, should he manhandle her lady again. With a soft chuckle, lord Baelish removes his touch slowly, as if such a thing pains him. Not for the first time, Sansa feels uneasy in the presence of this old friend of her mother’s.

“The Lothbrok's will not take you home, lady Sansa,” he tells her, grey eyes twinkling. “We’re all liars here. Even the Lothbrok’s. Whatever they’ve promised, know that it is very unlikely they will deliver. Should you wish for another option, you need only find me.” He bows, giving her no time to reply. “My lady.”

Shaking, Sansa watches him go, eyes pricking with tears she refuses to shed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to check in with the King in the North and his long suffering mother

On her knees in the darkened Sept at Riverrun, Catelyn Stark prays by rote, only partly aware of what she is even saying to the silent Gods.

Unable to sleep, kept awake by the fierce ache for her husband's arms, for her children at her breast, she spends her time alternating between the Mother and the Stranger. Robb will be home soon and, if lord Ragnar does as he promised, so will her sweet Sansa.

Though she trusts house Lothbrok little - they are little better than the wildlings they descend from - houses Umber and Mormont vouch for lord Ragnar, despite his dead mistress' ties to the Lannister bloodline.

Though she had thought to release the kingslayer, to bargain for the return of her daughters, Robb's latest raven has stayed her hand, for the moment. There is movement by the doors to the Sept, and she turns to see Brienne.

The girl seems out of place with her stature and armor, and though she seems devout enough, Catelyn knows she finds little peace in the presence of the Gods. Rising from the cold marble floor, Catelyn joins her sworn shield with a tired, brittle smile.

"My lady," Brienne greets with a bow of her head, "pardon my intrusion, but the King has just been sighted by the sentries."

Startled, they had told her it would be at least dawn before Robb was sighted, Catelyn turns to see that light has begun to creep through the stained glass windows. Inhaling sharply, she brushes a hand across her lambswool gown, judging it to be fine enough to greet her son and king.

The yard is awake and bustling as she strides through it, and Edmure waits for her by the gate. Her brothers expression is wary, as he went against Robb's expressed command while the king was away. Catelyn doubts Robb will punish his uncle, but she has said nothing to allay her foolish brother's fears.

It is all she can do not to fly across the ground when Robb and his men ride through the gates. The loss of Bran and Rickon is an open, festering wound that aches whenever she thinks of her three remaining children, scattered to the winds. Robb greets her with a wide smile and he sweeps her off her feet before she can rise from her courtesy.

Without preamble, he leads her from the yard, a spring in his step and a lightness to him she has not seen since before the late king came to Winterfell. They settle in her father's solar, with only Edmure for company.

Startled by his good mood, given the news of her boys reached them while he was off at the Crag, she say nothing when he hands her a parchment.

"Read it, mother," he urges, blue eyes practically dancing despite the pain she can see in them. 

Sterling herself, though it cannot be as terrible as she fears, Catelyn unfurls the scroll. Heart caught somewhere in her throat, her eyes glaze over at the sight of her daughter's name. Sansa is alive, she is betrothed to a son of lord Ragnar and is allowed to leave the capital, she will be returning to the North before the fortnight is out.

Breathless, she does not protest when Robb snatches her to his chest. They hold one another, laughing and crying in turns, at the thought of part of their broken family being returned to them.

"She's coming home, mother," Robb whispers against her hair, as if he cannot believe it himself, "Sansa is coming home."


	8. Chapter 8

“Lady Sansa, welcome,” lady Margaery glides down the stairs to the Maidenvault, kisses her brother, and gathers Sansa’s arm to tow her inside. “It is such a pleasure to formally make your acquaintance – I cannot tell you how long I have wanted this day to come.”

Sansa smiles politely, looking to all the world as if she has not a care in the world. Her carefully crafted porcelain smile becomes brittle and threatens to crack when she sees who is seated at the table. Surrounded by endless bouquets of roses sits the wizened Queen of Thorns, a gaggle of Tyrell ladies, and lady Lagertha. Tempted to rip her arm from lady Margery’s and run to the safety of her rooms, Sansa forces herself to remain calm.

Margaery introduces her cousins first, a gaggle of silly, empty-headed girls that return to their sewing at the sharp command of lady Olenna. Margaery’s mother, lady Alerie Tyrell, is introduced next. She is a kind woman, one who smiles gently at Sansa before she gives way for her goodmother.

Lady Olenna is a tiny little thing, wrinkled and grey-haired, but with sharp, glinting eyes that threaten to spear through Sansa.

“May I present you my grandmother, the lady Olenna Tyrell.” Margaery steps to the side and gently urges Sansa to step forward.

Olenna holds out a wrinkled, dainty hand. “Kiss me, child,” she bids Sansa, who does as she asks. “So good of you to join me and my foolish flock of hens,” gesturing for the two girls to seat themselves, she calls for a song from their fool, Butterbumps. “We have many cakes available, my lady,” Olenna tells Sansa, a twinkle in her eye that she immediately distrusts. “I’ve been told lemon cakes are your favorite.”

Sansa nods, accepting the sugary confection when Margaery offers the tray. They sip tea in silence, listening to Butterbumps as he tumbles and sings, though Sansa can barely hear him over the roar in her ears.

“Now then,” lady Olenna leans forward in her chair, eyes intent on Sansa, “tell me, what might we do to see you leave the capital, hmm?”

Sansa drops what is left of her lemon cake. Every eye is on her and she can feel the blood drain from her face. Lagertha nods encouragingly when Sansa glances to her, too stunned to speak. “I…I…”

“Yes, you.” Olenna says patiently, arms crossed and hands in her lap. “You cannot stay here, not if you expect to make an honest marriage of yourself. The king’s desire for you is well known, and we cannot have such a thing now, can we?”

“She’s terrified, grandmother,” lady Margaery murmurs, catching Sansa’s trembling hand and soothing her thumb along the back of it, “just look at her. Sansa, do you want to stay in Kings Landing?”

Unsure, Sansa shakes her head and immediately blanches. “I-I mean, it is a great honor that I am allowed to live as a ward of the court… I-”

“Speak your mind, child,” Olenna urges her quietly as Butterbump bursts into a caterwaul of a song. “No harm will come to you. Tell me, has the king been cruel to you? Has he hurt you? Tell us the truth now.”

Panicked, all Sansa can do is look to Lagertha, who merely gazes back with silent pain in her eyes. Swallowing, Sansa finds herself nodding. “My father always told the truth,” she whispers, clutching Margaery’s hand tightly, though the older girl gives no protest.

“He had that reputation, yes,” Olenna agrees blithely, “and they named him traitor and took his head for it.”

“Joffrey did that.” Sansa hisses, expression one of cold fury and the three women pause at her words. “I begged for mercy and he cut off my father’s head and said that that was mercy. Then he took me to the walls and made me look at it. The queen had my wolf killed and the butcher’s boy and-” She cannot, will not, continue. “I-I’m a traitor, I have traitor’s blood, please don’t make me say anymore…”

“Shh, sweetling,” Lagertha coos and enfolds Sansa in her arms. She goes willingly, distraught at the thought that she has said too much, that she has ruined everything. “Hush now, it’s all right.”

“He’s a monster,” Sansa whispers against the silk of Lagertha’s gown.

Olenna and Margaery hear the quiet words and share a long look. “That’s a pity,” Olenna heaves a sigh that seems too big for her small body. “Oh, well. My son is quite set on his daughter being queen, so have no fear on that front. Margaery will wed the king, as you will wed young Ivar, lady Stark.”

“And what of our agreement?” Lagertha asks, Sansa tucked beneath her chin. “Will you be able to convince the king?”

Lost, Sansa almost asks what is happening, but holds her tongue. She is tired, tired of plots and schemes, tired of King’s Landing. All she wants is to go home.

“Oh, do not worry about that, my lady,” Margaery whispers with a wicked little smirk that looks so out of place on her innocent features. “Before the week is out, you and your family will be riding back North with the king’s blessing.”

* * *

 

Seated in lady Lagertha’s solar, Sansa keeps her eyes on her sewing, determined to ignore that it is her own maiden’s cloak draped across her lap. The snarling grey direwolf seems to leap off the white samite, studded with freshwater pearls and chips of diamond that Lagertha procured from a source unknown to Sansa.

Thus far, they have been able to beg off the queen’s presence, Lagertha insisting that all is well in hand, that they are unworthy of the queen’s touch in this matter. Though there has been no verdict on where or when the wedding will take place, Lagertha is of the mind that it is better to be prepared. There has been no talk of a wedding dress, though the queen has offered the use of her own seamstresses should the task become too arduous for Sansa herself.

Carefully stitching small trout here and there, to honor her mother’s kin, Sansa nearly stabs herself with the needle when hands fall onto her shoulders. It is Ubbe, not Ivar, smiling down at her when she tilts her head. Smothering the disappointment, she gives him a small smile when he seats himself across from her.

“How are you, little sister?”

“I am well, my lord,” she replies, eyes searching her work to make certain she did not ruin it when Ubbe surprised her. To her relief, the white silk is unmarked. “And yourself?”

“Bored,” is his succinct reply. “There is little to do here, how did you stand it all this time?” Before she can reply, he leans his head back and groans. “And I miss my wife, my Margrethe. I think you two would like one another.”

Sansa smiles politely but continues with her stitching. Ubbe remains silent and watches his brother’s future wife, smiling sadly at the brittleness to her bird-like shoulders. His own Margrethe is like this girl, though she is much stronger since their marriage. Unlike Bjorn’s hellcat, Torvi, Margrethe dreams of nothing but being the wife of a lord, mother to a host of children. Thinking of his elder brother sends a sharp pain through Ubbe’s chest.

Were it not for his mother, he would be with Bjorn right now, fighting for their king. He knows Lagertha tried to go after her son, to join him in the Young Wolf’s army, but Floki caught her and returned her to his father, snarling and clawing like the wolf she was. Soon, they will join the king’s levies, they will do away with this charade of loyalty to the bastard king.

Lagertha enters the room, Ivar and Hvitserk on her heels. She pauses at the sight of Ubbe and Sansa, seated in companionable silence, but says nothing. Gliding towards Sansa, she leans down to inspect the work, offering heartfelt praise that earns a small, genuine smile from the girl.

“All that work,” Hvitserk comments as he lounges beside Ubbe. Ivar remains standing, arms crossed and eyes intent on his betrothed, “and it will just end up on the ground.”

“So will the wedding gown,” Lagertha reminds him tartly, lightly smacking him with a wooden spoon from the table when he chortles. “But it will need to be made of warmer material than samite, that much I can tell you.”

This time, Sansa does prick her finger. It is only Ubbe who notices and he rips the uncompleted cloak from Sansa’s lap before the blood can drip onto the unblemished samite. He gathers it carefully in his arms, handing it to Lagertha as Sansa stares into the hearth, eyes vacant and wide.

“Sansa?” Lagertha calls, tempted to call for a Maester when Ivar moves. Prowling like a cat, he crosses the room and kneels before Sansa. Satisfied the girl is in good hands, Lagertha nods for Ubbe and Hvitserk to join her as she sweeps from the room.

“Little wolf,” Ivar takes her hand and holds her finger to his mouth. Pupils blown wide, he gazes at the beaded blood before drawing the finger into his mouth. Sansa squeaks, abruptly coming back to herself in time to feel Ivar’s tongue soothe the small wound.

Mouth dry, she can only stare as he gently cleans it, making sure the blood is cleared away before he releases the tip of her finger from his mouth. Trembling from head to toe, heat gathering in her core, she sits in wide-eyed silence as he looms over her, a trace of her blood on his bottom lip.

“You will look so beautiful in the Godswood at Kattegat,” he whispers, eyes nearly black from desire, “but you will look even more beautiful spread out on my furs, naked and flushed and trembling with desire.”

To her mortification, Sansa nods in agreement with his words and, once more, squeaks in shock when he rears up to kiss her, one hand tangled in the curls at the base of her neck. Lost in the heat of their mouths, in the closeness of their bodies, neither notice when Ragnar appears, carrying a pitcher of water. Were they in Kattegat, he would look the other way, but King’s Landing is different. So, with a light heart and a grin that nearly splits his face, Ragnar tosses the contents of the pitcher onto the couple just as Ivar begins to hike up Sansa’s skirts.

Seated in the sitting area, Lagertha ignores the shrieks of surprise and rage. Sansa’s maiden cloak draped across her lap, she sedately weaves the Lothbrok knots around the Tully trout, humming faintly when Ivar’s shriek, followed by her husband’s cry of alarm, echoes through their apartments.

Ubbe glances nervously toward the door. “Should we…?”

Lagertha does not even glance up. “No.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Joff rears his pretty (but ugly on the inside) head and Lagertha gets to kick someone's ass

Smile frozen on her face, Sansa holds herself as stiffly as courtesy allows while Joffrey whirls her around the dance floor. Though he has given into the subtle demands of his betrothed, sending Sansa from court as if dismissing a naughty scullery maid, his behavior does not surprise her.

From the start of the feast that marks the departure of lord Lothbrok and his family – and Sansa herself – the king has paid his former betrothed marked attention. Outwardly, there is nothing truly wrong with his behavior, as the court has come to expect such courtly declarations from their king who has ever adored being the center of attention.

However, he is toeing the line and it is obvious to all. Even lady Margaery, who Sansa has never seen lose her temper or be anything other than gracious and sweet, eyes the king with something akin to hostility. Ivar’s eyes are dark with rage, and Sansa knows it is only the calming hand of Lagertha that has stopped her future husband from driving a dagger through the king’s eye.

As the king spins her, his hand lower on her waist than is proper, he leers at the bodice of her gown and licks his lips suggestively. “You look ravishing, my lady. Almost good enough to eat.”

Eyes lowered, shame creeping along her skin, Sansa nearly sobs in relief when lord Tywin himself cuts in, the queen on his arm. As Cersei, whispering furiously, leads her son off, lord Tywin offers his arm to Sansa.

“My lady Stark,” he allows a gracious nod and leads her back to the high table, into the waiting arms of lord Ragnar. “I wish you well, on your journey.”

“My lord,” Sansa gives him a curtsey, grateful to him despite everything. It is with the greatest relief that she sits down in between Lagertha and Ivar. Lagertha catches her hand and strokes along the back of it, looking the other way when Ivar leans in close to press a gentle kiss just behind her ear.

“We will be home within a fortnight,” he whispers, fingers toying with one of the elaborate braids that drapes over her shoulder. He frowns at the very Southron style, but says nothing; the queen sent her personal maids to dress Sansa for the feast. “You will like Kattegat, I am sure.”

“I hope so, my lord,” Sansa replies with a small smile that grows when he kisses the back of her hand. He has been more affectionate as of late, so much so she is not sure what to make of it.

Grinning, Ivar takes a sip of wine just as Ragnar comes to sweep her onto the dance floor. He is careful to keep her far away from the king, who dances, rather unwillingly, with his mother. Near the end of the feast, Ragnar deposits a laughing, flushed Sansa into her seat. Lagertha’s cool expression softens at the sight, though her lips thin at the way the king glowers at the girl from across the room.

“Perhaps it would be prudent to leave before dawn,” she whispers in an undertone to Ragnar. Both watch keenly as lady Margaery tries, unsuccessfully, to coax her betrothed into a dance. The girl’s bodice is cut low, lower even than the dress Sansa wears, but the king ignores his soon to be bride and has eyes only for Sansa as Ivar whispers into her ear. “So that certain desires cannot be acted upon.”

“I agree, wife,” Ragnar rumbles, lips hidden beneath the rim of his goblet. What they say is for those around them alone; both know of what must be done to keep the girl safe. “And, perhaps Sansa might sleep with you tonight? I will bed down with the boys if I must, but I do not trust certain persons to leave her be if she is alone.”

Lagertha inclines her head and turns to insert herself into the quiet conversation between Sansa and Ivar. Though the girl seems surprised when Lagertha offers use of their rooms – Sansa’s quarters in the Red Keep have been stripped bare – there is no disguising the relief in those blue Tully eyes.

The feast is winding to a close, though many have either succumbed to drink or lust, and the hall is all but empty when Sansa and Lagertha slip from their seats. Arm in arm, the two stride through the darkened halls, pace quickening when footsteps come from around the corner.

“Lady Sansa,” Ser Meryn Trant greets lightly, hand on the pommel of his sword and eyes glittering in the torchlight. “I have come to take you to his Majesty.”

Lagertha inserts herself between them, eyes cold and lips set in a polite smile. “I am quite certain his grace will understand if lady Sansa refuses – we have, after all, a long hard ride ahead of us come morning and need our sleep.”

“I do believe that, if the king has his way,” the knight begins with a definite leer to his words, “lady Sansa will have a long, hard night ahead of her as well. Now, if you’ll excuse us…” He reaches for Sansa, so assured that neither will put up a fight, that he does not see the blade Lagertha pulls from her bodice.

With a scowl, Lagertha slashes the man across the face, careful not to cause a mortal wound, and drives the pommel of her dagger into the bleeding man’s temple. He falls like a stone, blood seeping onto the red stone of the floor. Wiping her blade clean on the white cloak the downed man does not deserve, Lagertha turns to gather Sansa in her arms.

“Come quickly, little one,” She soothes when Sansa clutches her arm hard enough to bruise, eyes too wide for her face. “We must get to the stables.”

The halls are silent, given the late hour and festivities that transpired earlier. Therefore, their trip to the stables is uneventful, though both stiffen at the sight of another whitecloak waiting for them.

“Lady Lagertha,” Ser Loras Tyrell greets, almost too pretty for words. “I am here on my grandmother’s orders – she wishes you to take these.” He hands off several wrapped envelops, each marked for their intended recipient with flowing script. “And deliver them as you see fit. My ladies.”

He sweeps away without a word, and Lagertha breathes a sigh of relief. Though she does not trust the Tyrells, they have done more than held up their end of the bargain. She only hopes working with them will not prove to be a mistake.

“Come,” Lagertha urges Sansa, who is bone-white and frozen with horror at what has occurred. The girl comes, hands cold as ice in Lagertha’s grip. They enter the stables to find a handful of Lothbrok men, along with Ragnar. “Ragnar, where are the others?”

“I sent the boys ahead with the rest of our men – they will make sure our way out the Dragon Gate is clear.” Ragnar stops at the blood splatter across his wife’s front. “What happened?”

“Trant.” Is her brusque reply as she all but drags Sansa’s limp body towards her own horse. The girl is, by her own admission, a poor horsewoman and, while it is not ideal, Lagertha does not mind riding pillion with the girl. “Come Sansa, quickly now!”

Dragging herself onto the horse, Sansa shivers violently. There are cloaks in the saddlebags, but there is little time for that now. Not when the entire castle could awaken when Ser Meryn is discovered. Climbing onto the horse, Lagertha sits as a man would and urges the large beast with a click of her tongue and nudge from her knee. As the horse canters past Ragnar, he tosses an overlarge cloak from his back and covers Sansa with it.

“Her hair,” he reminds his wife quietly, well aware it is the girl’s most defining feature.

Nodding, Lagertha allows him to finish before she urges her horse into a gallop. Clearly startled, Sansa’s arms fly around Lagertha’s waist, fingers digging into her sides.  
“Hold onto me, sweetling,” Lagertha bids her, urging the horse faster and faster. Behind them, Ragnar follows closely, flanked by the men of their house.

They ride through fleabottom with little incident, and it is all the easier to gallop through the open Dragon Gate. As they pass, Sansa catches sight of the bloodied Goldcloaks and shivers with a kind of delight that frightens her. Seamlessly, Ivar and his brothers join them, accompanied by the rest of the small host Ragnar brought South.

“Is she all right?” Ivar calls, eyes trained intently on what little of Sansa’s face is not obscured by her hood.

“She’ll be fine.” Lagertha returns grimly, one hand releasing the reins to grasp one of Sansa’s. “I promise.”

Squeezing her soon to be goodmother’s fingers, Sansa releases them and turns to meet Ivar’s worried gaze. Summoning the power to smile at him, she reaches out when he urges his horse close enough that they may brush fingers.

“You can flirt later, you two,” Ragnar calls as he races past them to the head of the column. “Once we’re in Kattegat, you can do whatever you like.”

Face burning, Sansa buries it in Lagertha’s back as amused chuckles rise around them. Peeking from her hiding spot, she catches sight of Ivar’s knowing grin. Unable to help herself, she returns the expression, chest light for the first time since her father’s head was taken.

She is going home.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the pieces are finally coming together in the North - cue Catelyn's disapproval!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, in case I forget to say it, you're all beautiful people for taking a look at my humble story. That is all.

“A raven, your grace!”

Pulling himself from sweet Jeyne’s embrace, Robb turns to head off the messenger before the lad can barge in. Angling the door so that his lady is not visible, Robb exchanges the letter with a promise of food and a warm bed for the poor boy. Taking the scroll, he unfurls is, eyes widening at the neat, compact script.

“It’s from Sansa,” he breathes, hands trembling so violently the paper shakes. Jeyne rises and covers his hands with her own, smiling gently when he blinks. “They’ve left the capital – they are traveling to Kattegat. I must go, I must tell my mother.”

Gathering his cloak, Robb dons it and moves for the door. He pauses long enough to press a gentle kiss to Jeyne’s forehead, to whisper a promise, before he sweeps from the room. His mother knows of Jeyne’s existence, though she does not know the extent of their relationship. She believes Robb is merely being grateful to the girl, honoring her family by allowing Jeyne to act as his mother’s lady in waiting before attending his future bride.

Riverrun is a large castle, but it does not take Robb long to find his mother. She is, as always, in attendance upon her ailing father, lord Hoster Tully. She rises when he enters, though he stops her from curtsying by way of offering the letter.

“Read it, mother,” he whispers, mindful of his dying grandfather. The man is prone to delirious rambling if disturbed and, given the state he is in, Robb has no wish to add to his pain.

“This… this is in Sansa’s hand?” Catelyn whispers through numb lips, scarcely able to believe what she is seeing. A sentence catches her eye, and she frowns, rereading to make certain she is not seeing things. “Robb,” she draws him further from her father’s bedside, and at once she is lady Stark, the closest and most trusted councilor to the King in the North. “Have you read this?”

“Yes, of course-”

“Then why does it say Sansa is to marry one of lord Ragnar’s boys? That we are to meet them in Kattegat for the wedding? I thought the supposed betrothal was a sham to fool the Lannisters, so Sansa might leave King’s Landing?” Every word is sharp, though it cannot hide the worry lurking in her gaze.

Taking his mother’s hands, Robb draws her to the Solar in lord Tully’s rooms and pours her a goblet of wine. She will not like this, he knows, but he cannot keep it from her any longer. “I promised lord Ragnar that Sansa would wed one of his boys.” Robb informs her quietly, pushing aside his worry at the sight of her too pale face. “I spoke with Ironside – he relayed the message to his mother, and it was decided that, if Sansa chose to, she would wed one of the boys.”

“Sansa is a child,” Catelyn breathes sharply through her nose, “she is too young to make such a decision – there is no telling what the Lannisters did to her!”

“All the better that she chooses her own husband,” Robb soothes, catching her shoulders gently when she rises to pace, “she didn’t choose Joffrey, and she wouldn’t have chosen a Frey husband. After everything, I want Sansa to be happy.”

“She will be happy here, with us.” Catelyn mutters furiously, though even she can sense the truth in Robb’s words. She and Ned were wrong to allow the King to betroth Cersei Lannister’s bastard to their daughter. But she refuses to let her daughter be taken from her ever again. “I do not approve of this, Robb.”

“You don’t have to, mother,” he tells her gently, directing her to be seated by the fire, “by the time we ride for Kattegat, Sansa will likely be wed to lord Ivar.”

* * *

 

Adjusting his grip on the reigns, Ivar takes the chance to wrap his free arm around Sansa’s waist. She allows him to draw her closer, murmuring quietly when he presses a kiss behind her ear. She is half-asleep in the saddle, and he is more grateful than ever that they are finally North of the Neck. Though there has been no sign of pursuers, Ragnar and Lagertha both agreed that they would not stop until they were safely within the North.

“There is an inn up ahead,” Ubbe calls as he rides back toward their party, flanked by a pair of guards. “I have already booked all the available rooms.”

Muttering a prayer to the Old Golds, Ragnar spurs his horse into a gallop. The others follow suit, and soon they are dismounting as a stableboy rushes to take their mounts.

Ivar carefully swings Sansa down, supporting her when her knees buckle. “I’ve got you,” he whispers when she clutches feebly at his arms.

Lagertha notices and moves to help him. “You’ve not ridden so hard, nor so long before, have you dear?” She coos sympathetically, smiling when Sansa manages a weak shake of her head.

Though the Innkeeper and his wife look askance when Ivar carries Sansa up to the small room Ubbe has rented for them, nothing is said. A steaming copper tub awaits, and the room is lit by a roaring fire. So tired is she, that Sansa does not protest when Ivar strips her down to her shift and stockings, though he turns his head and allows her to slip naked into the tub.

Stripping down to his smallclothes and a loose sleeping shirt, Ivar moves to help her wash her back. Any lust kindled by the sight of her, naked and wet, is doused when he sees her back bared before him. Long, shiny pink welts crisscross the pale skin, and there are faint, yellow patches of bruises that have yet to fade.

“My lord?” Sansa whispers and turns to look over her shoulder at him. His dark blue eyes are narrowed in rage and fixated on her skin. She bites back a curse; how could she forget the marks Joff and the Kingsguard left on her? “I… you should not have to see these, my lord.”

She moves to pull away, startled when he catches her shoulder in a firm hand. “No,” he says in a low voice, tearing his eyes from the scars to meet her wide, frightened gaze. “Do not hide from me, never from me. These marks… they show that you are brave, Sansa.”

Breath caught painfully in her throat, Sansa can only stare as he reverently trails his fingers across the marks. Though there is nothing seductive in his touch, she shivers, warmth kindling low in her belly at the expression he wears.

“Ivar,” her whisper startles him, and his curious eyes fly up to meet hers. “You should get in the tub, before the water cools.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the story finally earns its 'M' rating... kinda.

Swathed in furs, seated at the firepit in the middle of Lagertha’s solar, Sansa cradles a cup of warm mead in her hands. She missed the cold of the North more dearly than she ever thought possible.

Lagertha slips into the room, a swath of pure, unblemished white fabric in her arms. “This was my wedding gown,” she whispers, fingers trailing fondly over the snowy garment. Carefully, she unfolds it and holds it up for Sansa’s examination. “If you choose to, it can be unpicked and made to suit your specifications. Unless you would rather we craft a new gown?”

“No,” Sansa says, touched that Lagertha would offer such a treasured memory. Though their marriage is not warm as it once was, Sansa has heard all about how in love lord Ragnar and lady Lagertha were when they were joined beneath the Heart Tree. “It is beautiful, Lagertha.”

“I am glad you think so,” setting the dress carefully onto the empty table, Lagertha crossed the room to produce a bolt of Myrrish lace from one of the cabinets. “I received this as a gift from one of our Bannerman a few years ago – it was to be part of Gydda’s trousseau. Perhaps we may put it to good use?”

Smiling, Sansa nods rapidly, and Lagertha is not at all insulted at the thought of her wedding gown being unpicked and remade anew. Plans are made to tailor the dress to Sansa’s measurements, and to add the lace to the relatively plain dress.

Giggling over cups of mead, their relatively peaceful interlude is broken by Ragnar’s arrival. He smiles at the sight of them, holding a finger to his lips to quiet their greetings. “We have received a raven, Sansa. From your mother.”

Standing so abruptly her cup of mead splatters onto the ground, Sansa scrambles across the room to take the letter from his extended hand. Trembling with excitement, she hurries to break the seal and runs her eyes over her mother’s familiar script.

She is less than halfway through the letter before her stomach drops with unease.

“Sansa?” Lagertha half-rises from her seat when she catches sight of the growing distress on the girl’s face. “Child, what is it?”

“I…I must speak with Ivar,” the letter falls from her limp fingers and she dashes off to find her betrothed.

Bewildered, Ragnar bends to pluck the letter and raises it to his eyes. Lagertha joins him, scanning the words over his shoulder. It is the tone of the letter that takes Lagertha aback; the condescension in lady Stark’s tone is prevalent through the entire thing, as is her barely concealed distaste for Sansa’s choice of husband, whom she frequently refers to as a bastard.

“What she must think of her daughter,” Lagertha mutters, irritation coloring her feelings for the King’s mother. “And Ivar… to think she compares him to Cersei Lannisters bastard!”

Warmed by her defense of his son, Ragnar presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Do not worry. Sansa has made her choice – not even the Gods could sway her now.”

* * *

 

“Little wolf, what is it?” Ivar asks quietly as Sansa leads him into the Godswood. The sentinel pines grow thick here, shielding the area from the sun, casting it in cool shadow. Her grip is tight on his hand, her eyes wide and wild, and her breath shallow. “Sansa?”

“Do you love me?” She blurts out, unable to stop herself. Her mother’s words have shaken her confidence in her choice of a husband, but she refuses to let them destroy what has grown between Ivar and herself. “Do you love me, Ivar?”

Taken aback, Ivar blinks in surprise before he steps closer. “Sansa… of course I love you, what is this about?” He cradles her face, and she leans into his touch, more relieved than she can say. No matter what her mother thinks, no matter what she says, she cannot take Ivar away from Sansa. Too many people have been taken away from her – Lady, Father, Arya, Bran and Rickon, Jeyne – she will not allow anyone else to slip through her fingers.

Without warning, she surges forward, catching Ivar by surprise. Her kiss is determined, hot and heavy against his mouth, and he responds in kind. The shy touch her tongue against the seam of his lips draws a low growl from his throat, and he fists a hand in her loose, auburn curls. A heady warmth forms between them, and he presses a hand against the small of her back to draw her closer.

She follows the path of his hand and presses herself against him, her breasts a soft weight beneath the wool of her gown, the fur of her cloak. Arousal stirring in his belly, Ivar gentles his kisses, determined not to hurt her, to never hurt her. Drawing back to look at her face, he takes in the sight of her, the rosy hue of her cheeks, the pink, almost red, flesh of her swollen lips.

“Sansa,” he whispers, stroking her high cheekbones, her parted lips, “My little wolf…”

Boldly, she draws her hands from their place on his chest, one to curl in the hair at the nape of his neck, the other dragging down towards his belt. Arousal has darkened her gaze, sharpened it into something vulpine, and it should not excite him as much as it does. Without a thought, he removes his cloak and tosses it onto the chilled ground, then guides her to lay with him. He makes no move to remove her cloak, or her gown, but he maneuvers them until she is on her back, staring up at him.

The smoldering heat in his gaze no longer frightens her, and she does no protest as he hikes the skirt of her lambswool gown up to her knees. He gently tastes the soft skin of her knees, dragging his lips higher and higher, until his head disappears beneath her skirts.

“Ivar! What are you doing?” She asks, eyes dark and voice breathless.

He peeks out from beneath her skirts to wink at her just as nimble fingers draw her smallclothes down her legs. “I’m kissing you.”

He gently prods her legs open, and she lets them fall with a sigh that turns into a breathy moan when he shifts his hands under her thighs, spreading her for him. His fingers trace her lips, drawing a high, keening sound from her throat that heightens his arousal. Without a thought, he spreads her lower lips and leans forward, inhaling her scent deeply.

Sansa squirms, any remaining unease chased away by desire, and she lifts her hips, pressing closer to him. Unable to stop himself, Ivar licks right up along her slit, groaning at the taste of her. Her hips arch off the blanket and, were they not far enough from the hustle and bustle of Kattegat, he might have bidden her to be quiet.

With his tongue, he traces her folds, applying more and more pressure as her hips instinctively roll towards his touch. When she cants her hips toward him, whimpering desperately, he thrusts his tongue into her as deeply as he can. He is rewarded with another high, keening wail that she abruptly tries to stifle with her fist.

When she is flushed and trembling violently with need, he crooks a finger inside of her, delighting in the long, sinuous arch of her back as he latches his lips to the nub at the apex of her cunt. There is a flood of warmth and wet as he pushes her over the edge, tongue tracing over her folds to calm her as she comes down from the high.

Once her thighs have stopped shaking, Ivar returns her smallclothes to their proper place and ventures from beneath her skirts. His mouth goes dry at the sight of her, eyes hooded, mouth slightly open, a pearly flush along her cheekbones. He slithers up her body, cupping her face in his large hands and gently kisses her. She responds enthusiastically, yet still shyly, and feels as those her heart may burst.

“I love you, little wolf,” he whispers against her lips as they kiss languidly over and over again. “Never doubt that.”

Her trembling smile nearly breaks his heart and he gathers her to his chest. They sit for a time, before the determined chill in the air chases them back to the warmth of the Lothbrok longhouse. Though it is of the north, and does remind her a bit of Winterfell, in some ways Kattegat is as different from Winterfell as King’s Landing. But the people have a kindness to them that brings tears to her eyes.

“Ivar!” Ragnar calls out as they enter the hall, flushed and giggling like a pair of lovesick loons. And perhaps that is what they are. “Sansa! Where have you two been?”

With a mortified squeak at the secret, knowing smile her soon to be goodfather wears, Sansa hides her face in the folds of Ivar’s cloak.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some warm family reunions that are going to quickly give way to drama.

Within less than a week’s time of Sansa’s arrival, Northern scouts arrive in Kattegat. Though none are familiar to her, she sits and listens avidly in the main hall of the longhouse as they inform lord Ragnar of the King in the North’s imminent arrival.

“His grace will arrive by nightfall, my lord,” a bearded man in stained furs claims with every eye in the hall upon him. “As will lady Stark, Lord Edmure, and a host of northern lords.”

Though Sansa doubts that is all who will arrive, she finds she does not care beyond the mention of her family. Clutching at the fine white furs Ivar gifted to her just that morning, Sansa stands when the scout turns his attention to her.

“My lady princess,” the man greets with a bow far lower than the one he gave lord Ragnar, “It is an honor to finally meet you.” Inclining her head graciously, Sansa smiles gently at the man, and he seems to relax before her very eyes.

As the scouts are led away to rest, Ragnar stands and claps his hand loudly. “Well, you heard him! We are to host a king tonight! And in two days’ time,” he shifts and gestures to Sansa, who forces herself to stand tall, “my son shall wed a princess!”

Were he not so attuned to his wife’s moods, Ragnar might have been fooled into thinking she wished to conduct a private bedding of their own when she hauls him unceremoniously into their empty bedchamber moments later.

“Lagertha?” He arches a brow as she closes the door, latching it for good measure. “What is it?”

“Bjorn has written to me.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement, and she does not protest when Ragnar seizes her into his arms and swings her about the room. “He is coming home, Ragnar. Our son is coming home.”

“That is wonderful news,” he breathes, setting her to her booted feet, though he does not move away and neither does she. Her cold refusals of his attentions have grown fewer and fewer, but he chooses not to remark upon it. “But something else is troubling you?”

“Yes,” she says nothing when he cups her cheek with one large hand, and even leans into the tender touch. It is hard at times, hard to be cold and cruel and detached from him, when he has done his best to make up for what he did to them. “I was concerned with lady Catelyn’s feelings towards Sansa and Ivars’ marriage. Bjorn promises me that the king will proclaim the boys legitimate, but what if that is not enough for his mother?”

“Sansa is no shirking violet, even after what was done to her in King’s Landing.” Ragnar tells her.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Her temper flares, and she wrenches from his careful touch to pace their spacious rooms. “But the girl has missed her family, and I’m afraid she will bend to the wishes of her mother, that she will be afraid she will lose her.”

“Then Catelyn Starks loss shall be our gain, Lagertha,” he reminds her quietly, taking the wind out of her sails. Sansa is not a replacement for Gyda, no one could ever replace their bright, shining girl, but Ragnar has come to love the broken yet steely Stark girl. And he knows Lagertha feels the same.

“You are right,” Lagertha sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose, “I was foolish to think otherwise.”

Ragnar cups her cheeks again, and leans to press a chaste kiss to her forehead. For the first time, she touches his wrist lightly to hold this sign of his affection to her skin.

* * *

 

The moment she lays eyes on her son, Lagertha tears across the yard and is upon the large, bear-like man before he can even dismount properly. The normally stoic, controlled woman is almost hysterical with joy, and she does little to conceal the tears in her sky-blue gaze.

Robb watches astride his warhorse, Greywind at his side. Though he has seen Ironside tear apart men with his axe and not break a sweat, the large man all but falls apart in his mother’s arms. Soon enough, lord Ragnar joins them, the three of them clutching one another tightly.

Vaulting from his horse just as the three remaining sons greet their brother, Robb turns his head at the muted little gasp from behind them. There, Sansa stands, far taller than the last time he saw her, and he is racing full tilt across the ground before he gives it a thought.

“Robb!” Sansa breathes when he sweeps her into his arms, dainty feet dangling as he hauls her tightly to him. She is never letting go of him again, never. When he finally sets her on her feet, a wet nose nudges her fingers, and her heart aches at the sight of the direwolf. “Greywind.”

Robb laughs as Sansa falls to her knees and embraces the wolf, digging her fingers into his fur. Greywind rasps his tongue across her face, earning delighted laughter instead of shrieks of dismay, as Robb expects. His little sister has changed, that much is certain.

“Sansa!”

Her head snaps up and she is off like a shot. “Mother!”

“Oh, Sansa,” Catelyn whispers her name like a prayer, cradling the poor girl in her embrace, refusing to let go. “My dear sweet girl.”

“Mama,” Sansa buries her face in the ermine trim of her cloak, inhaling deeply. She falls back to the less formal address that she has not uttered since she was a toddler in nursery smocks. “Mama…”

“I’m here, sweetling, I’m here.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though my writing may suggest otherwise, I actually do like Catelyn Stark. I just think that, given her feelings towards Jon Snow, she would not enjoy her daughter marrying a bastard... especially when she thinks said daughter is still an innocent, sheltered little girl.

Fingers knuckle-deep in Greywind’s pelt, Sansa resists the urge to flinch further into her seat as mother and Robb shout at one another over the firepit. Her uncle Edmure, who is kind and gentle with her, if not overly so, catches sight of her dismay and reaches out a hand. She takes it, squeezing tightly, even as Greywind inches closer in an attempt to comfort her with his bulk.

“I will not have it, Robb! I will not have my daughter wed to a bastard.” Catelyn’s voice is strident with temper, though she does not raise it above her normal speaking tone. She will not air their dirty laundry, even to allies.

Robb has no such qualms. “It is done, mother! Sansa and Ivar will be wed!” Beneath his grown in beard, his cheeks are nearly red as his hair. He gestures sharply in Sansa’s direction, and though only Edmure sees it, she flinches back as if struck. “This is her decision!”

“She is a child! I am her mother, I know what is best for her.” Catelyn’s eyes are frosty, and her slender fingers are clenched into fists. “I will not have her make such a rash, stupid decision because she has been taken in by foolish dreams again.”

For a moment, Sansa cannot breathe; every snide insult levelled her way, every cruel admonition she received in King’s Landing, is all she can hear. Her mother is replaced by Cersei Lannister, emerald eyes glinting with malice. The violence in Robb’s gestures sends her back to that horrible day in the Throne Room, when Joff had her stripped and beaten, when only lord Tyrion showed enough kindness to put a stop to it, to care for her well being.

Edmure sees the deepening of her distress, the shallowness of her breathes, and soothes his hand along hers. “Sansa? Dear, are you all right?”

His words pierce the angry bubble, and Catelyn and Robb halt their argument to see wide, frightened eyes staring back at them. Shaking violently, Sansa does not hear their alarmed queries, she is too lost in memories of biting words and cruel backhands, of groping hands and leering gazes.

Without a word, she flies from the room as if there are lions on her heels. The citizens of Kattegat stop, and several try to stop her, yet their kindly attempts are but white noise in her ears. With unseeing eyes and no destination, other than far from the memories of King’s Landing that will not leave her be, she runs headlong into Ivar’s eldest brother and Kattegat’s Maester.

“Princess Sansa,” Maestar Athelstan’s touch is kind, but she flinches from it all the same. “My lady, what is the matter?”

“I… I…” It is hard to draw breath, and black spots begin to dance before her eyes. Gasping heavily, she does not protest when Bjorn Ironside sweeps her into his arms at the Maester’s firm command. It is a relief to hide in Bjorn’s arms, to lose herself, to forget the memories that hound her and steal the air from her lungs.

When Sansa goes limp in Bjorn’s arms, Maester Athelstan’s worry deepens. Though he has spoken with the girl about the nightmares that make it hard to her to breathe, that make her fall into the memories of her ordeal at the hands of the Lannisters, he has never seen her in such a state.

“Bring her to my rooms – quickly!” He starts for his rooms, even as he knows there is little to do until Sansa calms herself. He could administer milk of the poppy, but deems it unnecessary unless her condition worsens.

“Ironside!” King Robb strides towards them, his mother and uncle on his heels. Worry has contorted his features, and his mother looks close to tears, while his uncle seems to be berating them in hushed tones. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you would know, your grace,” Bjorn adjusts Sansa’s light weight, “she was running through the yard as if the hounds of Hel were upon her.”

“I am not sure,” Robb looks at a loss, though his mother seems better informed, and Edmure is whispering angrily to his sister. “We were discussing delicate matters and she…” He pauses, takes in the listening ears and the interested eyes. “Come, we should discuss this in private.”

They head for the Maester’s house, where Athelstan clears a space on the cluttered surface and gestures for Bjorn to set her down. Her pulse is strong, if a little too rapid for his taste, and her cheeks are flushed despite the paleness of her skin. She will not meet the eye of anyone, save him, and he sighs deeply.

“Are you all right, my lady princess?” He asks quietly, gently enough that her too rapid pulse slows somewhat. “What about the nightmares? Has the tonic helped?”

“Nightmares?” Lady Catelyn’s voice is sharp, and Athelstan curses inwardly when Sansa flinches violently. “What nightmares?”

“She has not divulged the nature of them, but only a fool would not assume they are of her time in King’s Landing.” Athelstan tells them quietly, puzzled by the confusion in lady Catelyn’s expression. Surely, she knows the manner in which her daughter was treated during the long months in the Capital?

“What do you mean?” Keen blue eyes flit between her silent, pale daughter, and the reticent Maester. “Sansa?”

Any response Maester Athelstan might have formed is halted when heavy footsteps enter the house. “Sansa! Athelstan, is Sansa…” Ivar stops dead at the sight of Sansa on the cot, of the people gathered around her, but soon he is stalking forward. “Sansa…”

Bristling at the longing in the boy’s gaze, Catelyn places herself between her daughter and one of Ragnar’s bastards. “My daughter is ill,” she tells him coldly, “she should not be disturbed.”

“She is my betrothed.” Ivar returns evenly, though Bjorn sees the tightening of his shoulders and knows it heralds an outburst of temper. “I want to see her.”

“Ivar,” Sansa’s voice is whisper soft, yet strong enough that Bjorn eyes his new little sister with something akin to pride. “Ivar…”

Sensing his mother’s hold on her temper fraying, Robb quickly moves to divert her attention. “I am sure Sansa is in capable hands with Maester Athelstan, mother. Perhaps we should return to our rooms – I believe Lord Ragnar wanted to speak with me.”

Before Catelyn can react, she is summarily bundled from the room by her son and brother. Neither Ivar or Athelstan is surprised when Sansa wilts in relief when her mother leaves her sight. Bjorn arches a brow, but says nothing.

“Are you all right, Sansa?” Ivar threads his fingers through the hair at her temples. She has worn it down every day since their arrival, and he loves nothing more than to touch the fiery mane. “What happened?”

“I believe Lady Sansa had a panic attack, Ivar,” Athelstan informs him quietly when Sansa shakes her head mutely. That the girl has no desire to revisit her trauma does not surprise him. “I will administer milk of the poppy, if that is your wish, my lady?”

Sansa denies that she needs it, but accepts the small vial the Maester offers her anyway. She will likely down it before bed, but he does not need to know that. She stands from where Bjorn placed her, and faces the eldest of lord Ragnar’s brood.

“Thank you, my lord.” She gives a gracious nod of her head, startled when the man smiles warmly at her.

“I see why my mother likes you, princess.”

*

Robb has heard the rumors, but even he did not believe them. Cersei Lannister would be aware of the proper treatment of a nobly-born hostage, particularly one as gentle and kind as Sansa.

“What do you suppose happened to Sansa in the capital?” Robb asks quietly once they return to their rooms. His expression is a troubled one, and Catelyn reaches to touch his hand, her anger forgotten for now.

“We know she witnessed your father’s execution,” she reminds him, and both flinch at the reminder, but she perseveres despite the pain, “but I am sure no true harm came to her. She was a noble hostage – even Cersei Lannister knows better than to treat a nobly born girl poorly. Especially when she meant to trade Sansa for the Kingslayer.” 

Edmure listens quietly, staring into the hearth intently. “I believe you are a fool, sister.” He pronounces quietly, still struck by the reactions of his young niece. The poor girl had seemed terrified of her own brother and mother, and things do not add up. “I do not believe the Lannisters treated Sansa honorably, and you should not either. Surely you’ve heard the rumors?”

Catelyn’s pulse skips. “Rumors and gossip should not be taken at face value, Edmure.” She tells him coldly. “Of course I’ve heard the rumors of the Lannister bastard’s cruelty, but surely Sansa was safe in the Capital.”

Edmure says no more, his expression troubled. When Lord Ragnar arrives to speak to Robb, Catelyn has drifted to her own rooms, overcome with worry for her seemingly lost daughter.

*

Naked as a babe, Sansa stretches languidly amongst the furs of Ivar’s bed. Warm, muscled arms slip around her slender waist, stroking reverently across pale skin. She murmurs and coos when he follows his fingertips with his lips, then with teeth and tongue.

Pausing at her flat belly, Ivar rests his chin there and stares up at her. She flushes, despite the glazed, desire in her sated gaze. That she is shy and demure, even after he has coaxed cries and moans from her parted lips, feasted between her legs, amuses him deeply.

“My little wolf,” he whispers fondly, earning a pleased, small smile. “I love you, Sansa.”

Reaching down, she cards her fingers through his thick, dark hair. He has shaved it on the sides and begun to braid it back, as his father and brothers do. “I love you too,” she whispers it like a secret, repeats it against his lips when he crawls up her body to kiss her, sighs it in a breathy moan when he latches his lips onto the rosy peak of her breast.

That they have been intimate, that he has touch and tasted every inch of her body, should shame her. But it does not. For the first time since her father’s head was taken, Sansa has a measure of control over her life, over what she does and wants. 

And she wants Ivar.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mawwiage is what bwings us togethew today. Mawwiage, that bwessed awwangement, that dweam within a dweam."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wedding time!

The day of Sansa’s wedding dawns grey and clear, yet the sun shines bright as gold when Lady Catelyn strides into her daughter’s chambers, Brienne at her side. Sansa is on a pedestal, surrounded by the wives and daughters of Ragnar’s brood. Lady Lagertha stands by her, wearing the proud smile of a mother.

Despite herself, Catelyn’s breath catches when Sansa turns. Gowned in flowing, pure white silk, she is a vision of loveliness with her auburn curls loose about her shoulders. They tumble down her back, crowned with a wreath of white roses. She wears no ornamentation save the flowers, and there is no paint on her lips, eyes or cheeks.

“Mother,” Sansa greets, expression dimming ever so slightly. Ubbe’s wife, Margrethe, begins to fuss with the askew flowers, smiling gently. “What do you think?”

“You look beautiful, Sansa,” her mother returns honestly with a small smile of her own, hoping to put her daughter at ease. “As beautiful as the Maiden.”

“I am sure they say as such to all brides on their wedding day,” Torvi, Ironside’s hellcat of a wife, pipes up from her spot beside Lagertha. But her eyes are gentle, her smile kind, and it takes the bite from her words. “But you are a beauty, little sister, there is no doubt.”

“She is indeed.” Lagertha collects the maiden’s cloak in her arms, dressed in the red and black of her House. Both her gooddaughters wear the same, while her little granddaughter Siggy twirls in a gown of bright scarlet. In her arms, Margrethe carries a doe-eyed babe named Freyda. “Now, I do believe it is almost time. Girls.”

Lagertha nods for the women to proceed her, waits until they are out of the room before she hands the maiden’s cloak to Catelyn. Surprised, Catelyn accepts the heavy swath of samite, blinking at the sight of leaping, Tully trouts amongst snarling direwolves. Her eyes grow quite moist, and they are overly bright when she raises them to meet Lagertha’s.

“We will be waiting for you.” With that, the lady of Kattegat sweeps from the room, taking Brienne with her, and leaving Sansa and her mother alone for the first time since their reunion.

Unease creeps into the line of Sansa’s shoulders, and she fusses with the lace trim of her dagged sleeves. The snowy material brushes the ground, and Catelyn can see narrow, doeskin slippers on her daughter’s feet.

“I wish your father could see you,” Catelyn whispers, heart caught painfully in her throat. Sansa’s eyes fill with tears, but she is silent. “He would be so proud of you, of the young woman you’ve become.” To her bewilderment, guilt clouds Sansa’s delicate features.

“No, he wouldn’t.” She croaks out, unable to stop herself. She has told no one this, no one but Ivar, a secret whispered in the dark, and shame fills her at the reminder she is the cause of her father’s death. “It was my fault he died. I told Cersei he was leaving the Capital, I wanted to stay and be queen… I was a stupid little girl with stupid dreams…” The sobs that take her are great, heaving ones that steal the breath from her lungs.

Alarmed, Catelyn rushes to her side, the Maiden’s cloak forgotten on the floor. Whispering apology after apology, Sansa presses her face into the green velvet of her mother’s high-necked gown.

* * *

 

Robb knocks carefully on the doorframe of Sansa’s rooms, worried despite himself. Though his sister and mother are not exactly late, they are late enough that he worries. When there is no answer, he cautiously pokes his head into the room to see Sansa and his mother on the ground, arms around one another. Their faces are wet with tears, yet there is a tenderness to their embrace he has not seen since Winterfell.

“Mother? Sansa?” He calls lightly as he enters the room. They start at his arrival, and both look alarmed at his presence. “Is everything all right?”

“Gods, what time is it?” Catelyn is the first to rise, reaching down to help Sansa to her feet. She brushes her daughter’s gown off, grateful the material isn’t wrinkled, before she retrieves the Maiden’s cloak. “We best be going, sweetling. But we will speak later. All of us.”

Sansa nods, a steel in her eyes that Catelyn recognizes at once. Cupping her daughter’s face, she presses a kiss to her forehead before she hands the Maiden cloak to Robb. He sweeps the silver and white samite across her slender shoulders, pins it in place the snarling direwolf brooch that has black pearls for eyes.

“Lord Ivar will not know what to do with you, sweet sister.” Robb tells her, feeling a great swell of affection for his sister, along with an inkling of shame. He is a king, supposed to protect his people, to protect his sisters, to defend them. That Sansa has seen horrors in King’s Landing, as Ragnar has alluded, fills him with a shame that chokes him. He will never allow anyone to hurt her again. “It is time.”

They stride through Kattegat, where the yard is lined with serving women, squires, knights and stable boys, commoners and nobles alike. They call out Sansa’s name, cry out for the King in the North, and for Ned Stark. Sansa smiles for them, though her eyes are dry they are red-rimmed, yet none seem to notice.

Ivar awaits them at the heart tree in a lambswool doublet of red, sewn with the Lothbrok knots and hammer in black leather. Ragnar and his household stand to the side, while Robb’s wait opposite. Catelyn goes to stand by her brother, while Robb and Sansa stride arm in arm until they reach Ivar.

“Who comes before the Gods?” Floki, the shipbuilder of Kattegat and a somewhat priest of the Old Gods, asks in a high, booming voice.

“Princess Sansa Stark,” Robb replies gravely, “daughter of House Stark, comes here to be wed. A maiden grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she has come to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“I, Ivar of House Lothbrok, son of Ragnar Lothbrok, do so.” Ivar’s eyes never leave Sansa’s trembling smile.

Floki nods. “Who gives her?”

“Robb Stark, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell, who is her trueborn brother.” Robb turns to her, expression gentling with affection at the sight of her teary eyes. “Will you have this man, sister?”

“I will have this man.” Sansa manages to hide the tremble in her words, but her smile is wide when Ivar breathes a quiet sigh of relief. That he thinks she would deny him touches her, and she grips his hand tightly when he offers. They kneel as one before the heart tree, before the carved, scowling face of the weirwood. They pray silently, as all look on, and never once let go of the other’s hand.

When they stand at Floki’s prompting and face one another, Ivar breaks tradition and kisses the palm of her slender hand. Carefully, he undoes the direwolf clasp and her maiden’s cloak falls to settle in the red leaves. Accepting the red and black cloak from his father, Ivar sweeps the heavy velvet across her shoulders and clasps the Lothbrok knot. In that instance, she moves from her brother’s protection to Ivars.

“It is done.” Floki announces, taking their clasped hands and raising them so all may see.

Ivar wastes no time in cupping Sansa’s face and drawing her mouth to his. Bawdy cheers rise from the witnesses, and Sansa is flushing, yet wears a beaming smile, when she pulls back.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about SEX baby... let's talk about YOU and ME...
> 
> Wedding night time!

It is when the bedding is called that Robb Stark truly learns just how safe Sansa was in the capital.

As they are separated, the look Ivar throws his little wife sets heat pooling in her core. It is almost enough to forget her embarrassment as grasping, unwelcome hands reach for her. Still, she tries not to shy away as the memories from King’s Landing threaten to overwhelm her. Though it escapes her notice, the crowd that is gathered around her is less rowdy than the women that descend on Ivar.

As if they sense her discomfort, the men of Kattegat are gentle as they remove her clothes, and when she is left in her shift and slippers, strong arms wrap about her waist to haul her over a broad shoulder.

Though there is laughter as the bride is swept from the hall by her eldest goodbrother, while her poor groom is stripped to his smallclothes until his smirking stepmother takes pity on him, Robb is frozen in his seat. Though it is from a distance, and he only saw for an instant, Robb is well acquainted with scars to know when he sees them.

Then and there, he vows to show no mercy to the Lannisters, for they showed no mercy to his gentle, kind sister.

* * *

 

Somehow, Ivar manages to escape their clutches, aided by his smirking stepmother, and stumbles his way to his rooms. He bars the door for good measure – he has no desire for a drunk to stumble into the room – and turns to face his little wife. Sansa sits on the bed, eyes wide and luminous in the warm glow of the fire. Her slim fingers toy nervously with the edges of her shift, and she seems hesitant to meet his gaze. That she is still so painfully shy, even after all the have done, warms him in ways nothing else can.

“Little wife,” he coos as he kneels before her, taking her hands. He presses kissed to the backs, the palms, the fingertips, before he draws her close. She shivers in his arms, and he senses it is not from desire. Clearly, though she knows he will not hurt her, the bedding has left her confidence shaken.

“I-I… I know it will hurt, my lord,” she whispers, looking at some point beyond his shoulder. Her fingers twist uselessly in the furs, and Ivar catches them gently. “I…”

“Sansa,” he threads their fingers together, brings them to his lips to kiss her palms. “Have I hurt you? Has anything we have done hurt you?”

She trembles before his eyes, yet there is a hint of steel in those Tully blue eyes. “No, Ivar. You have not, but…”

“Then I will not hurt you now.” He swears, rising from his knees with some difficulty, as his braces were left in the hall. “There will never been any pain between us – only good, little wolf.”

Eyes sparkling with tears, Sansa draws him down to lay on the furs so they face one another. To have him above her, on top of her, is too much to ask right now, and he is gentle in his understanding. “May I lift you up, wife?” Ivar asks, lips a breath from her own. She nods silently and allows him to pull her closer till they are pressed together.

With little effort, he sits on the bed and draws her with him until she sits astride him. She shivers a little as her breasts press flush to his chest, the muscles of her thighs stretching with the effort. Though there is little between them already, and she can feel the press of his manhood, Sansa allows Ivar to remove her shift and throw it carelessly to the floor. He pulls from her kisses and begins to lay wet, sucking kisses across her collarbone. She scraps her nails across his scalp, giggling when he all but purrs in pleasure, and begins to run her fingers through his thick hair.

Her giggles turn to breathy moans when, as he kisses down her body, his lips latch onto the tip of her breast. He suckles it much as a newborn might, paying equal attention to her other breast when the first is left taut and aching. Whimpering faintly, Sansa shifts, attempting to calm the smoldering ache between her thighs. When he lays her on her back and kisses to the place between her thighs, Sansa relaxes. Though it is previously unthinkable to her, they have had no chaperone since their arrival in Kattegat, and they have made good use of such privacy. She knows what he means to do, and lets out a keening cry when his mouth descends on her sex.

He touches her with sure fingers, already aware of her likes and dislikes, and soon enough she is flush with pleasure, panting out a few praises. As he adds a second finger, the hot, twisted feeling in her abdomen worsens, and she feels she might scream in protest when he removes his touch from her body. But then his mouth is there again, latching onto her pearl, and she is coming undone beneath his touch scant heartbeats later. Panting heavily, Sansa cranes her head weakly to see Ivar watching her, eyes darkened and lips set in a lazy smile.

“You are so beautiful, little wife,” he coos, stroking her quivering thighs. Without a thought, she reaches out for the ties that keep him modest. Despite her abrupt movement, he remains still, watching her reaction intently as his manhood springs out. Her insides turn to liquid, and she must pale rapidly, for Ivar cups her cheek before he settles beside her.

“What are you doing?” She manages to ask as she fights to keep the fear from laying beneath her husband from overwhelming her. For years, there have been threats, both spoken and unspoken, that she could be held down at any moment to be ‘properly fucked’, and the prospect of laying beneath her husband is a bit frightening even now.

“I promised only good for you, little wolf. I will see your nightmares of this moment cease for good.” Resting a hand on his abdomen, he holds out the other for her to take. With only a moment’s hesitation, Sansa takes his hand and allows him to tug her closer. It is awkward to straddle him, and she gasps when he slicks himself on her wetness. He whispers quiet encouragements as she begins to sink down onto him, one hand at the splay of her hip.

Breathing shallowly at the way her sex twinges at the invasion, the way it stings when she moves too much, she weakly rests her hands on the expanse of his chest in an effort to support herself. Her eyes fly to his face, and she swallows at the almost feral look that he wears. A vein pulses in his neck, and she feathers kisses across his skin in an effort to thank him for this.

He threads his fingers through her hair, and clenches tightly when she rolls her hips experimentally. Both his hands find her hips, and he shifts her closer, helping her build a rhythm that has them both panting. The warmth in her belly soon grows hot again, and she whimpers sharply when his fingers find her pearl between their bodies, so intent is he on bringing her to completion before he finds his own.

Taut as a bowstring, Sansa writhes above him and cries as her body releases her from the tense knot inside her. Eyes gleaming, Ivar soon follows, clutching her close to him as he reaches his end, soothing fingers across her dampened skin and pressing long, sipping kisses to her mouth when she collapses onto him. Dazed by their coupling, Sansa is only barely aware of Ivar shifting them beneath the furs, and finds it easier to breathe only when she is cocooned between Ivar and the furs.

Warm and surrounded by the scent of him, Sansa dozes until he breathes into her ear, “Shall I send for Lagertha to bring you moon tea?”

Had such a matter not been brought up beforehand, Sansa knows she would be hurt that her husband has no wish to fill her with a child, to let her be a mother. But she understands his concern, and is grateful for it. “No,” she whispers, twisting to meet his gaze over her shoulder. His eyes are concerned, but she knows he will respect whatever she decides. She settles closer to him beneath the furs, smiling when his arms tighten. “Whatever happens, happens.”


	16. Chapter 16

It is in the weeks after Sansa's wedding that he manages to find a moment to confront his sister about the silvery scars that criss cross her back.

His mother, at first, cautions patience and, when he still insists on speaking to Sansa, outright forbids him to ruin his sister's honey-month. It is to be the sweetest month of marriage, and given that within a sennight Ivar and the Lothbrok men will be leaving to join the war, it is likely the longest Sansa will have with her husband for a good while.

Still, Robb is thankful for the time to process what his refusal to trade the Kingslayer for his sisters has done; Sansa, at the mercy of a deranged boy-king, and Arya, likely dead in a ditch somewhere.

He does not discuss his littlest sister's fate within mother's hearing, as she holds fast to the idea that Arya is still alive.

Watching Ivar and Sansa in the hall, heads bent closely, lips set into matching smiles as they share a secret only they know, Robb feels stirrings of contentment at the sight of her settled so well.

While it is true Ivar is of a lower standing, that Sansa was raised to be the wife of a lord paramount, if not a king, such things can be rectified. Sansa is a princess, and she will be able to call herself one so long as Robb has breath in his lungs.

Besides, Robb decides as Sansa catches his gaze, gifting him a beaming smile he cannot help but return, though the Greystarks proved themselves proved themselves traitors, he has no doubt his sister's children will be loyal to House Stark for years to come.

* * *

Almost two moons after her wedding is when Sansa notices the changes. Her breasts ache constantly, as sensitive as when her moon blood comes, while the scent of rabbit turns her stomach so fiercely she cannot even go near the kitchens. And, most important, he blood has not come since before her wedding.

She does not confide in Ivar, too worried to get his hopes up, nor does she ask her mother of the symptoms. While lady Catelyn has resigned herself to her daughter's choice of husband, she has become all the more protective now that the truth of her hardship in King's Landing has come to light.

Instead, she seems out the eldest of her good sisters; Torvi is a brash woman, not unlike Arya, yet she is also as mothering and tender as Sansa's own mother is. Her eyes are kind and understanding when she asks Sansa to list off her symptoms, and she gives a giggle when Sansa mentions the rabbit.

"I could not stomach onions until I was pregnant with my first," she tells her over cups of tea as they wait for Maester Aethelstan. "And then I was eating them raw, like apples. Bjorn thought I was going mad."

Sansa's reply is halted by the arrival of the young Maester, who clears his throat politely. "My ladies, I believe you requested my services."

Smoothing her hands over her still flat stomach, Sansa refuses to feel guilty. She is a woman grown, a woman wed, and a princess of the North to boot; she does not need to seek permission from her husband to see a Maester.

"Yes," she steps forward when Torvi gives her a gentle shove behind the shoulder blades. "I believe I am with child, and I would like you to confirm it."

 


End file.
